I do not choose the vicomte, for that would be foolish. He often wanted only to drive with her in the car, both of them staring at the scenery in silence for hours. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. The life with which he had endued these sheets of paper began to beckon imperiously. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign.
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